Unmoored

Prologue

Whitethorn Bay, England

Swaths of bodies clad in black blurred in my peripherals as I peered down at the casket before me. Sorrow hung in the air, and the dark mahogany mottled with mud and gravel warped the reflection of my tear-stained face.

Lord Emerson, my father, stood beside me, close enough that I sensed the heat radiating from his body, but still an inch of damp air separated us.

I reached for his hand, desperate for a mere sliver of comfort, but he shifted as soon as our skin made contact, and his cold, wet fingers slipped from my grasp.

My eyes fell shut as silent tears streamed down my cheeks, and I hummed softly to myself, a soothing melody my mother used to lull me to sleep as a child.

Memories of the only person I trusted and loved with all my heart flooded through my mind.

My lovely, fearless mother, the woman who had anchored me through all of life’s tempests, was now at the bottom of a six-foot-deep hole in the Whitethorn Bay Cemetery.

Taken far too soon by a vicious bout of consumption, I’d barely had time to process her rapid deterioration before she was gone.

From the moment she took her last breath, I knew I’d be left with nothing but a secluded room in our guarded estate, and a distant father who had never cared for my existence.

I opened my eyes, watching through the netting of my black veil as heaps of dirt hit the casket, the sound as empty as my hollow soul.

My heart hammered in my chest, as if it would give out at any second, while I watched the wet, pasty rubble cover the box that would hold her remains forever.

Storms roiled in the distance, dark grey clouds permeating the sky beyond the jutting cliffs, accented by angry gusts of wind whipping over the tumultuous grey ocean.

The churning waves called for my despair, beckoning me closer with a promise of comfort and freedom, and I felt a sort of kinship with the abyss that lay beyond the land.

My awareness drifted to thoughts of how often it stormed in this dreadful place.

On most occasions, I hated it. But today, the grey clouds painted a picture of what my heart felt like in this moment.

The only light I had in this world was gone, so I allowed myself to fall victim to the hurricane swirling inside my mind.

“Not again,” my father muttered beside me, shifting his stance as thick drops of rain started to fall heavier around us. His breath quickened, and from the corner of my eye I saw him flex his fingers before making a tight, white-knuckled fist.

I retreated further into myself, not entirely sure that he was talking to me, yet not wanting to acknowledge if he was. The man had never been what I needed from a father — he’d only tolerated me. He’d wanted a son, but my mother struggled to bear offspring, and I was the only child she bore.

As a young girl, I thought maybe he would grow fond of me due to the love he had for my mother, but that was proven wrong by the time I hit adolescence.

When I reached my teenage years, I was old enough to recognize the lifeless look in her eyes when he spoke to her, to hear their screaming arguments when I walked past their quarters in the night.

They hadn’t shared a bed since before I could remember.

I’d learned early on that my father and I would have the best relationship if we kept things cordial. We barely acknowledged each other, although I knew the pain weighed on my mother. Over the years she did her best to make up for his indifference, and for the most part, she succeeded.

I didn’t care about the man standing next to me, there was no love between us.

Blood relative or not, he was no father to me.

But I lived in his home, I ate his food, and I let his staff care for me and make my clothes.

Until I married off, I was stuck, though I was reluctant to reach that day as well.

My life thus far was an amalgamation of choices that weren’t my own, and I was well aware that my escape from Lord Emerson’s control would lend me no more freedom, only a new set of manacles fastened by a rich man with a vested interest in my father’s company.

So there I stood, playing the role of the stoic, dutiful daughter of Lord Emerson, my vision completely clouded by tears and my hearing muffled by the crashing of waves upon the cliffs and the rumble of voices around us.

The puffy sleeves of my black mourning dress grew heavy with rain, and I allowed my vision to blur under my damp lashes.

In that moment, I wished the sodden earth beneath my boots would open up and swallow me whole.

Next to me, Lord Emerson made another noise, louder and more frustrated this time, and my entire body tensed.

I couldn’t lie to myself. Despite the nonchalance I so desperately wanted to feel towards him, he terrified me. Without a doubt, he would blame these unsightly weather conditions on me, as he had since the day I was born.

As if I could conjure a storm with my bare hands.

The rain continued to fall harder as choked sobs threatened to escape my throat, and I prayed to whatever spirits were out there that all of this was just a dream.

That I would wake up and my mother would be alive and tending to her duties around the estate, my father would be halfway across the world on one of his merchant vessels, taking out his frustrations on the sea.

Instead, I was brought back to reality by a rough hand gripping my upper arm and shuffling me away from the gravesite. I no longer had the energy to stifle my sobs as we made our way to my father’s carriage.

“Enough, Hazel,” my father bit out. “You are growing hysterical, I cannot take it.”

I couldn’t form an answer, so instead I hung my head, willing my feet to match his pace until we reached the steps to his carriage.

His grip on my arm loosened as he helped me into the vehicle, though his actions held no gentle touch, only brutal efficiency.

When the doors closed behind us, I willed myself to keep my composure as I leaned my head against the wooden panel, shutting my eyes to this dreary, desolate day.

That was the last chance I ever had to say goodbye to my mother, and like everything else in this life, it was tainted by my father’s vile essence.